"Well, Miss Richmond, this is the most colorful I've seen you yet," said Doctor Baker, looking closely at her. "Though you're not quite rosy in the cheeks, you're on the right track. It looks like you might have put on a few pounds as well. I figured the iron would help."
Charlotte smiled, pleased with his words. She sat with her uncle in the doctor's office, very quiet except for the sound of passing wagons outside. A square of sun shined through the windows, illuminating the dust in the air. "I am feeling a bit better," Charlotte agreed. "I'm able to ascend and descend stairs without feeling too breathless now. It might not sound like much, but it's important to me."
"Oh, I don't doubt it," replied the doctor, adjusting his spectacles. "Have you noticed any other improvements?"
"I don't feel so tired all the time. I still grow exhausted easily, but not like before."
"Good." The doctor grabbed a stethoscope and listened to her heart. His optimistic expression became more serious after a few moments of listening. "The sound of your heart is still somewhat abnormal."
"What does that mean?" she asked, her good mood halting.
"Well... I've come across many people whose hearts sounded similar to yours, and they lived to be far older than me. But I must tell you that your heart is, in a sense, weaker than most. It hasn't changed much with your treatment, and I expect that it will remain how it is for the rest of your life."
"There isn't anything you can do?" Charlotte asked, feeling increasingly nervous.
He grabbed her hand comfortingly. "No, not in the traditional medical sense. But I can recommend that you continue as you have and lead a very relaxed life. It would be best to keep your stress levels as low as possible."
"Am I... in any immediate danger?"
"No, no. It's a good thing we caught it early. Now you know not to get yourself too worked up."
"But there must be consequences. What dangers are there?"
The doctor hesitated. "Now, Miss Richmond, there's no need to worry about any dangers right now, young as you are. Maybe when you're older, but not now. You seem to be feeling better, and you should take advantage of that, don't you think? In the meantime, let's keep you on the iron supplements for another month to make sure you don't lose your progress. You might get stronger yet."
Once they left the doctor's office, Charlotte and Samuel climbed onto their buckboard, and Charlotte sat pondering. "Now, don't you start," said Samuel, putting on his wide-brimmed hat.
"What?"
"I know that look. You're worryin' already just when the doc said not to."
"It's impossible not to worry when I know there's something wrong with my heart."
Samuel coughed a few times on the dust in the air. "Doc Baker said that there are people out there that live to a ripe old age with whatever condition you have. That's all that matters, right?"
Charlotte hesitated, wringing her gloved hands. Now that it was autumn, the temperature had taken a sudden drop. It was not terribly cold, but there was a persistent chill in the air. "I just wonder if my heart was normal, I would be normal too. Perhaps I would feel well all the time, as everyone else does."
"Well, I don't know about that, but there's no point in worryin' about what you can't help. You admitted yourself that you've been feelin' better. Hold onto that and enjoy life a little. Hell, when I was your age, I was racin' horses with my old pals and takin' back so much whisky, I'd wake up in places I'd never seen before.... Not that I recommend that for you, of course. As the doc said, keep things gentle, but that doesn't mean your life has to be dull."
He paused, coughing again. "Say, that harvest festival's comin' up soon. You said you were goin', ain't you?"
"Only because I know you'll take me anyway if I said no."
He grinned, his sunned, leathery skin wrinkled from the expression. "And you'd be right. I figure if you can stand teachin' the piano four days a week, you can stand to go to a public gatherin'."
"Teaching the piano to a small number of people at a time isn't the same as a crowded festival, you know."
"There's no need to be nervous anyway. Don't tell me it won't be fun."
Charlotte gave a small smile and stared into her lap. A part of her knew that it could be fun, but another part returned her old fears of people. So many people in one place where so many things could go wrong.... She tried to put that deep-rooted fear aside and think of the positives. There was sure to be good music and food there, and, most importantly, she was going with her uncle, so she wouldn't be alone.
"I've got an idea," said Samuel, nudging her shoulder. "Why not go to the mercantile and get yourself somethin' pretty to wear for the festival? Nothin' too expensive, you know, we're not ridin' high on the hog yet. But a little piece of jewelry maybe, or a brooch."
"I already have a broach."
"I know, the one your Pa gave you, but you never wear it and I know why. Don't know why you even keep it still."
In truth, the only reason she kept that piano pin, despite the terrible memories it gave her, was because it was perhaps the only physical token of affection her father had ever given her. It meant enough for her to keep it, but not enough to wear it.
"We shouldn't waste our money on silly things like that, uncle."
"Oh, come on. We have a little extra. Go on and buy somethin' nice for yourself. I'll wait outside and enjoy this fresh breeze."
She could tell that her uncle was insistent on this matter, so she descended the buckboard and walked over to the mercantile, though she didn't really want to and had no idea what to buy.
In the past couple of weeks, she had been trying to avoid Mr. Oleson.
Of course, that proved difficult since she was at his house two days out of the week. Fortunately, he was usually working in the mercantile with his wife while Charlotte and the two children practiced the piano in the adjacent room. Some days, she could avoid him entirely with this setup.
She wanted to avoid him because she hated the way she felt around him.
The moment he looked at her, she felt warm all over, and horribly breathless.
She wanted to be around him, which is exactly why she kept herself away. She liked the way he talked, his voice warm and paternal. She liked the way he moved, quite formal most of the time, often giving her a little bow every time he saw her, though he was never stuffy like his wife. He was friendly, which made him exceedingly pleasant to be around.
And yet, she deprived herself of this pleasure.
I suppose I see him as very much like a father figure. His character is certainly softer and more approachable than Father's. And he's so kind, it's only natural for me to want to be near him.
She hyper-focused on these thoughts and considered them the truth, because any alternative would have been too mortifying for her to consider.
As she went up the stairs of the mercantile, hoping that Mrs. Oleson was at the counter instead of her husband, she encountered Miss Wilder who was just leaving with a basket of groceries. "Oh, hello Charlotte," she said with a big smile. "I'm glad to run into you here. I wanted to ask you again if you might play something at the festival?"
"Eliza Jane, I'm really not sure," she said truthfully. "I've told you that crowds frighten me so."
"But they won't really be focused on you. People will be too busy dancing. Our usual player, old Mr. Johnson, is very fine for the jaunty tunes, but I'm sure you would be a brilliant choice for a slower, more soulful song."
"I'm flattered you think so," Charlotte said, grinning shyly. "But I'll have to see how I feel. You know how I am."
"Of course! I don't want to push you. Oh, one more thing. My brother Almanzo and I will be having a picnic next week to take advantage of the weather before it takes a turn for the worse. I'd love it if you could come."
"Well, yes, I suppose I can go."
"Wonderful," said the tall, gangly woman, clasping her hands together happily. "I'll see you around, then." She hurried away down the street, her figure casting a long shadow across the dirt road.
Charlotte entered the mercantile, slightly unsettled that more people were inside than usual. She supposed everyone had the same idea of getting ready for the harvest festival. Most of the customers were women with their children picking out fabrics and yarn, chattering about the colors and patterns.
For once Charlotte was glad to see Mrs. Oleson at the counter, Mr. Oleson nowhere in sight. She wore a white blouse with a lace collar and a black vest over it. She moved very energetically, her sharp blue eyes darting between all the customers she helped. She smiled at them occasionally, but never very sincerely.
As soon as Charlotte stepped up to the customer, Mrs. Oleson addressed her in a haughty tone. "Good day, Miss Richmond. Wrong time of the week for your usual groceries, isn't it?"
"I'm not here for groceries today, Mrs. Oleson," she replied. "Do you have a selection of jewelry I could browse?"
Mrs. Oleson raised an eyebrow. "Yes, a very fine selection, in fact. Though, I don't think they'd be very fitting for you."
"I'd like to see them anyway, thank you," Charlotte replied, trying to repress the irritation that most people usually felt when interacting with Harriet Oleson.
The older woman huffed and grabbed something from deep under the counter, coming back up with a glass-encased selection of broaches, rings, necklaces, and cameos. "These are our most affordable options," Mrs. Oleson explained in an annoyed tone as if she was wasting her time.
"They're very nice," Charlotte said, looking closely. She didn't really want anything, but she supposed some kind of jewelry would be nice to have. She missed her mother's pearls she used to wear back home, and wished she could have them now.
Her eyes caught on a gold ring with a deep blue stone in the center, as dark and glistening as the ocean. She remembered her father's words telling her that she always looked good in blue, though it was far from her favorite shade. "How much is this one?"
Mrs. Oleson clicked her tongue. "You have a finer eye than I expected, Miss Richmond. This is one of our better pieces. That's a real sapphire, you know, along with real gold. It's $25."
Charlotte's jaw almost dropped to the floor. "But that sapphire is minuscule."
"It's still a sapphire," Mrs. Oleson said airily. "By your tone, I assume you can't afford it. I'm not surprised. Besides, don't you think it's a bit sad for a woman to buy her own ring?"
Charlotte didn't know what to say. It was true that she couldn't afford it. Though she'd have liked to buy the ring just to spite the woman, if she did, she and her uncle wouldn't be able to afford food for a week. "Is... there anything more affordable?"
"Why, yes, but we don't have too many options for those... less fortunate. You see, we have certain standards here. I suppose you could consider this little silver ring for $15." She pointed to a ring so dull that one would have to be insane to pay so much for it.
"Perhaps I'll come back another time," Charlotte said, feeling very uncomfortable and frustrated.
"Yes, that might be best." Mrs. Oleson put the tray of jewelry back under the counter.
Before Charlotte could turn to leave, Mr. Oleson came in from the storeroom lugging a pile of heavy crates that towered over him. He placed the crates on the counter with a heavy thud, turning to his wife with an exhausted sigh. "I wish they wouldn't fill these boxes so much; it would be easier if they used smaller crates."
"Easier for you, not for the manufacturers," Mrs. Oleson muttered, annoyed. "Hurry up and unpack those things so they're not in the way."
When Mr. Oleson turned away from his wife, he saw Charlotte, and his exasperation turned into a smile. "Oh, hello, Miss Richmond. I didn't see you there. Can I help you with something?"
"N-no, Mr. Oleson. I was just leaving."
"Oh, before you do, that reminds me. Did you happen to read yesterday's paper?"
"No, I didn't."
He wagged a finger at her. "Now hold on just a minute." He retreated into the parlor, to the great irritation of his wife who had to work around the large crates he added to the counter.
A moment later, he came back with a page cut out from a newspaper, coming around the counter to hand it to her. "I was reading the paper yesterday evening and found this section about some composers over in Europe. I don't really know much about the subject, but I knew you would. You've seemed a little blue recently, and I figured having a look at this might help."
Charlotte slowly took the paper cutting, stunned. It was a page discussing the happenings of Liszt, Verdi, and a few other grand musicians. There was no particularly important news, but Charlotte suddenly felt like this piece of paper was one of the most significant objects in her life.
He thought of me, she reflected.
She realized she was holding her breath, and made herself take a breath in a discrete manner. "Thank you, Mr. Oleson," she murmured, feeling such a mix of emotions she could barely speak. "That was very thoughtful of you."
He shrugged with a small smile and gave her a pat on the shoulder. "Well, I better get back to work. A good day to you, and give my best to your uncle."
She nodded and hurried out of the mercantile faster than she thought she could. She went back up to the buckboard where her uncle had been resting, and as soon as she sat down, she felt dizzy. "What's the matter?" Samuel asked, immediately noticing her flustered behavior.
"Nothing," she breathed, feeling like her chest might burst.
"What's this?" he asked, looking at the newspaper in her hands.
"Nothing," she said again. "Mr. Oleson gave it to me. It's part of yesterday's paper. It's not terribly interesting." She folded it very gently and put it in the breast pocket of her coat. "Uncle, let's go home, please. I'm suddenly very tired."
At home, Charlotte tried her best to calm herself down, but nothing seemed to work. Her whole body tingled as if she was about to be set on fire. She was lightheaded and couldn't keep her thoughts straight.
She got out of her day clothes and changed into her white nightgown for the evening, turning on the oil lamp that sat beside her nightstand. Her uncle went to bed in his own room where he quickly went to sleep as he always did.
Beside her oil lamp was the folded newspaper piece from Mr. Oleson. Resting on her bed, she let her head fall to the side to look at it. She was not tired at all.
She was still so warm.
It was driving her crazy. She tossed and turned, kicking her sheets, her nightgown clinging to her body. She even jumped to her feet at one point and flung open her window to let in the cool fall air, but that, too, did nothing to help her.
Returning to bed, almost shivering with excess energy and uncertainty, she wrestled with her thoughts about Mr. Oleson.
She was so happy that he thought enough about her to give her that paper, even if it was the simplest and most mundane thing a person could do.
And yet, she was horrified by the way she felt, the tightness in her chest, the warmth all over her body, the ache in her stomach. She was in a state of terror because she couldn't come up with any more lies to tell herself.
Dear God, I like him.
I like him terribly much.
She liked everything about him. It wasn't just about how he looked. There were more handsome men than him. She liked that he was kind. She liked that he was tolerant, and thoughtful, and knew how to smile.
Every time she was close to him, her ears tingled and went red. Even the small pat on the shoulder he gave her at the mercantile just about destroyed her. She wanted to touch him, and she wanted him to touch her.
These thoughts tormented her, and she wished more than anything she could cast them away.
It's not right. It's not right. He's so much older than I. And married, with children.
She tossed and turned in her bed, her hair clinging to her sweaty skin. She pressed her face against her pillow, her fingers curling around the fabric, feeling how soft it was. Her whole body felt just as soft, and as warm as dough losing its form in the oven.
But these are just thoughts. Thoughts that no one must ever know. And as long as no one knows, they are harmless. Harmless. Aren't they? And they're sure to go away with time. When it's time for me to go home, they'll go away, and everything will be as it was before.
She groaned in frustration, throwing her arms around her pillow and pulling it close to her.
She found that she liked the way it felt pressed against the length of her body. A firm pressure against her breasts and stomach, allowing for her face to nestle into it. The sensation calmed her somewhat.
It was like a body pressed up against hers. As she finally fell asleep, that sensation allowed her to imagine what it would feel like to throw her arms around Nels Oleson's neck and have him hold her very dearly.